Harbinger of the Incarnate
by J.R. Marsden
Summary: Morrowind fic. Cargas Andus, a young woman serving as a Blade and advisor for the emperor, receives new orders: watch over the Nerevarine as his guardian angel so that he might, miraculously, fulfill the prophecy that would save the land and its inhabitants. Her orders: remain out of sight, and do whatever must be done to keep Morrowind from its destruction. Concrit appreciated.
1. Chapter 1: New Orders

**Chapter 1:**

**New Orders**

Working for the Emperor is tedious work. You would think that when I was first ordered to be His Majesty's right-hand, bodyguard, servant and pawn (damn Jauffre for that), I would have realized that. And a part of me did. I _did_ acknowledge the fact that it was going to be a lackluster life of repetition; all duties in every one of those aforementioned titles reeked of it, like a year-old carcass left in the heat. Sure, maybe with different scenarios and expectations (and His Majesty's expectations were quite high, might I add) but it all played out the same. A right-hand remained an extension of _his_ hand, a bodyguard guarded, a servant served, and a pawn...pawned.

It was all the same thing, when you look at it in retrospect. Which I did, and quite often, too.

Still, being the right-hand-bodyguard-servant-pawn to the Emperor has more perks than being any one of those things under anyone else. The tedious killing of assassins was certainly more interesting than the tedious cleaning of the stables, for one. For another, sometimes tasks - however rare - that weren't of the norm sprang up. Most came from the Blades, _not_ from the esteemed Uriel Septim VII, but still.

However tedious, the work is, in retrospect, not bad.

* * *

A letter came to my door at dawn.

A letter. At _dawn_.

Sometimes, I wonder if the servants are mad to carry out such tasks so early in the morn. It's one thing to wake with the sun and _prepare_ for tasks, a whole other thing to actually _do_ those tasks, sometimes even before the sun had risen. They're dedicated, I'll give them that, if anything at all.

Naturally, I still haven't ruled out insanity.

In any case, it's a letter with His Majesty's seal, and per my duty as a Blade, I have to open it. What it says is vague and unhelpful; suspicious to an extent, but there was a certain intricity to be said of the Emperor's seal that proved legitimacy, a certain curve to each line of the complicated design. It wasn't easy to copy. I know, I've tried.

"Meet me in my bedchambers. - U"

Not questioning it further, I stuff the letter into my garments and begin pulling on the standard gold-lined steel armor every royal guard wore and obeyed the unspoken orders of the (annoyingly vague) letter.

I just hope it's not a trap. I honestly doubt it is, really, but I'm never fully functional when I wake, and a trap could prove to be disastrous for me. Probably for the trap-setter as well, but more so me.

The halls were quiet and empty, an unsettling thing when you're so used to servants running up and down the ornate building, doing one thing or another for either His Majesty or the Council. Under normal circumstances I would have stopped and appreciated the beautiful marble carvings on the walls and the murals some artist had miraculously painted onto the roof (it was all extravagant and breathtakingly beautiful, but to crane your neck upwards just to slather on a few pictures?), but I was in a rush. One: because I'm _always_ in a rush, and two: the letter had stirred a sense of adrenalin within me, one I don't typically feel unless I have no explanation whatsoever on just what the hell is going on. And the letter most certainly did not have any explanation _whatsoever_.

One flaw in the architecture, I found, is that it's incredibly easy to know which room belongs to the Emperor. His bedchamber doors were impractically large and carved elegantly with murals of various legends, some of spiritual origins and others because of their moral teachings. The doorway is rimmed with a thin lining of gold - _real_ gold - and there's always two guards stationed right in front. During an attack, two guards would hardly suffice. I have, at one time, brought it up with His Majesty about the obviousness of it all, of the risks that came with such a stand-off appearance, but he was quick to deny to the idea of changing rooms, perhaps because he felt wrong to leave the room his forefathers had been in, but mostly because His Majesty just _loved_ that damned fancy door of his.

I nodded to the guards posted, who, like always, looked dreadfully bored at their silent vigil by the Emperor's door, before I knocked three times. I always used my hand rather than that lion-shaped doorknocker, if only because it made a different sound he always associated with me (that and it just felt more natural to do so). A few moments after, I was called into the room.

I was expecting to see him still in bed, perhaps with a book or journal in hand, or at his desk scribbling notes for the drawn out meetings he was to attend to during the day, or even in the washroom, cleaning up and putting on a fresh pair of royal clothes. He wasn't doing anything of the sort, though.

He was pacing.

A pacing Emperor is never a good sign.

He looks up at me briefly. "Cargas…" He says in some rather uninterested way of greeting, before his pacing continues once more.

I take a few brief moments to examine him. He's still in his robes from yesterday, his hair is a shaggy gray mop on his head, and his eyes were lidded. He didn't sleep at all during the night, possibly pacing that entire time, a likelihood not entirely in doubt if he was in one of his paranoid thinking moods.

The silence is terribly awkward for me.

"Your Majesty…"

Still no reply. If I'm honest, I'm worried about his well-being at this point.

Suddenly, he slumps down onto his bed, a heavy sigh leaving his chapped lips, hands running over his face. He's thinking again, perhaps a little too much. His gaze flickers towards me, and despite my formal training of "never move when a superior looks at you, especially when that superior is the Emperor" I find myself inclining my head ever so slightly to the left.

This, at last, triggers him to speak.

"Cargas…" he repeats my name again, this time in a softer tone just bordering a whisper, almost as if he were struggling to come to a conclusion about my fate. He pauses for a second more, then: "I have a rather...special request to ask of you. A favor."

And just like that, I'm wide awake, as alert as I can be, and intrigued. To have a favor so burdensome on his shoulders was interesting to say the least, especially if he's _this_ rattled.

Uriel Septim stood slowly, as if he were pained, but manages a straight-backed and composed walk to his desk, one that resonated a sense of resolve. He reached into one of the drawers and pulled out a parcel of sealed documents. He frowns at it momentarily, then hands it to me with a slight upturn of the lips that, to me, always said "fine, take it".

"Those are prisoner transfer-and-release forms."

I'm confused, but I take them anyways, logically believing he would elaborate. And he did. Somewhat.

"Are you aware of the things taking place in the Morrowind province?" He asks, stuffing his arms into his sleeves.

"Aware enough." Not quite a lie, but not the whole truth. I know about Blight, and I know leadership was questionable, but very little of either. I wasn't going to tell him that though, of course.

"Those _things_ have started to trouble me. Deeply. I need you to escort this prisoner to Morrowind and follow him, but don't let him see you. Watch his progress and only ever get involved if you must, in order to protect him."

I mulled this over for a moment.

"Is this a Blades request?" It certainly seemed Blade-y enough, but he shakes his head.

"No, it's a favor you're doing for me personally. A few agents in the Vvardenfell district are aware of this, the ones under Caius Cosades's command, and naturally Jauffre would be informed, but it's not an order by him."

To be sent away from Cyrodiil without it being ordered by Jauffre was...uneasing. While my natural tendency is to disobey my leader (I don't, really, but I have been noted as stubborn and questionable), there was something about this whole "favor" that seemed to go farther than just keeping an eye on a prisoner.

Eyes twinkling in dawnlight, he reached out his hands and rested them on my shoulders.

I could feel the blessing he was giving me when his lips touched my head. Uriel looked down with a small, sad smile on his old face, much like a father might when saying goodbye to his daughter, who may well never return.

"May the Divines be with you, Cargas."

I could only nod in response as he motioned me towards the door.

* * *

With the forms were briefing papers (and by the Nine I was relieved). "Prisoner to give package (also came with the forms and briefing) to Caius Cosades. Make sure package is with prisoner at all times. Prisoner to be kept safe at all times. Track him. Remain inconspicuous. Do what must be done for mission to be complete."

I was certain this mission was only known to Uriel and possibly Jauffre. Caius later, perhaps. I knew nothing; the prisoner knew nothing. And we most likely won't ever know. Like I said, pawns.

To my dismay, on the package for Caius was a note which said: "DO NOT OPEN; CAIUS'S EYES ONLY."

There goes my snooping fun. And I _know_ Jauffre put it there specifically for me.

* * *

The prisoner's name was Mastrius Tharyon, and he was...unimpressionable, to put it in nice terms. A scrawny, light-weight Dark Elf with crimson hair he seemed to find cutting unimportant as it quite literally near brushed his buttocks. He wasn't troublesome or obscenely loud or obnoxious in any way, just quiet, and obedient. When I came for him, he simply nodded and followed me without question. Perhaps I was just another guard to him.

Probably, seeing as he had no idea on just where his life was headed, and neither did I.

Even so, his quiet and (externally) calm temperament made me wonder. Why and how long was he arrested for? Nothing on the papers had stated much, just that he was to be released by order of the Emperor. You didn't need information when things were ordered that way, but it was most certainly helpful.

Might have been useful, too.

"You're accompanying him?"

"Yes."

"Through the entire trip to…" the guard to be driving the carriage frowned down at the papers. "Morrowind, Vvardenfell district?"

"Yes." I wouldn't be here otherwise, kind sir.

"Very well."

I went up front with the carriage driver, for assurance.

* * *

We made a stop in Chorrol to pick up another prisoner who was to be transferred to Morrowind, another Dark Elf named Jiub. He wasn't mentioned in my briefing, but I still took note of him, if only because he was far more memorable than the one I _should_ be watching.

"What were you arrested for?"

"Accidental killing of a comrade in the Fighters Guild."

"Accidental?"

"He was too slow to block. I swung down too hard with the mace."

"Ah. And Modryn didn't kill you?"

"No. I turned myself in before he could."

"Really? Turned yourself in because you were afraid of Modryn?"

Jiub raised a ragged eyebrow at me, contorting the scar that marred his once-handsome face. He looked as if I had just asked the most unintelligent question in all of Nirn.

"You have met Modryn Oreyon, right?"

"Yes, I have."

"Then you'd have to understand why the guard is so much less threatening than the Champion of the guild."

I have to say, I can't argue against that.

* * *

Three hours until we arrive at the dock.

Three hours before dawn.

On schedule, thank the Nine.

But I can't sleep.

I can't claim I'm worried because we are, for once, _on time_. But I have a gut feeling about something, and it's not a nice something.

And whenever I close my eyes, I think that Masser and Secunda are calling to me. And I think Mastrius is hearing it, too.

He looks like a mer who can hear the moons.

**AN:**** My first TES fanfic, so any helpful critique would help. Thought I'd put a spin to it by writing from the perspective of someone _other_ than the Nerevarine. Do hope you enjoyed, and do review!**


	2. Chapter 2: The Boat

**Chapter 2:**

**The Boat**

I don't like boats. They move too much and sway too much and creak too much and _I think I'm going to be sick._

Divines, _why _couldn't there be another way?

It would have helped oh so much.

I spend most of the time on deck, leaning over the railing and trying to suppress the need to throw up breakfast every time a wave comes by and causes the damned transport to lean more to the side.

Left, right, left, right, left, _right, left, right, __**left, right, left, right**_

Just try imagining that swaying motion, just for a second, and imagine with each movement something _creaks_, as if that _something's_ about to break_. _It's not fun. Not at all. And if I ever have to get on another Oblivion-damned boat it'll be too soon. _Much _too soon.

In my peripheral vision, I see the captain of the vessel, a Redguard with a shaved head and beady dark eyes. He's laughing at me, I can tell.

That's fine, though. I never cared much about dignity anyway.

...

"How long until we reach Vvardenfell?"

"A few days, maybe, 'pending on weather."

Pyke Sendu is a man of the sea, that much is clear. He was as unaffected by the swaying of the boat as I was affected by it. He laughed often and downed tankards of beer without a second thought, completely relaxed and at ease despite being miles away from land. He's a hardened man, too; you could see it in his eyes and by the scars on his bald brown head.

"So," the captain leans heavily on the table, scrutinizing me with those dark eyes of his. "Why're those prisoners of yours going over to Vvardenfell?"

I might've told him if I knew the answer, but I didn't. I couldn't let him know I didn't, though, otherwise he might take advantage of it, or think something suspicious is happening on his boat.

Safest route then would be lying.

"Just a prisoner transfer," I say, refusing his offer for a drink. "I'm taking them to Vivec."

"From Imperial City?" He sounds dubious.

"Yes. We need more room for the more dangerous criminals of Cyrodiil." An obvious lie, that. Imperial City's prison takes up an entire district all on its own; a lack of space is impossible there, especially with the many daily executions.

And that's why Pyke doesn't buy it. At least, I don't _think _he does. He's difficult to read.

Pyke frowns, but doesn't respond at all. He just drinks his beer, bids me a farewell, and heads into his quarters.

Yeah, he doesn't buy it, not that I would either if I were in such a situation.

Best be on my guard.

...

The prisoners look even more uncomfortable than I feel. Both Dark Elves are chained at the wrists and ankles (with another chain keeping them to the ground), and are constricted to the very back of the boat in the storage room. They've no way to steady themselves and aren't ever allowed on deck. I pitied them (somewhat), but they _were _prisoners. If they had just obeyed the law, then they wouldn't find themselves in such uncomfortable settings.

Mastrius looked especially uncomfortable, like he hadn't slept since he's been on the boat. Dark circles were under his lidded crimson eyes, and his head hung slightly, as if he was exhausted but had no way of being able to rest.

The third day on the boat, I was the one to bring them their lunch: stale bread, cold mashed potatoes, and a small cup of lukewarm, tasteless tea.

I placed the plate in front of Mastrius, who simply blinked at it, as if confused. I watch for a few moments, waiting for him to reach over with his cuffed hands and take a bite of the bread. He doesn't move at all though, so I turn away from him and give Jiub his meal. He, at least, eats, awkwardly holding the spoon with both hands as he messes with the potatoes. He looks up at me briefly.

"Got any moonsugar?" He takes a nonchalant bite, face screwing a bit at the taste.

I look at him like he's an idiot because, well, _he is_.

'Yes, ask the Blade-guard-woman if she has an illegal substance on her! I'm sure she does! Here you go, prisoner!' That's what I want to say, and the urge is terribly strong, but I settle for something simpler and painfully lackluster:

"No."

"Damn shame." The scarred mer continues eating then, his disappointment almost tangible.

Second thing I learned on this boat (the first being that I _hate _boats): Jiub is addicted to moonsugar. Or Skooma. Either or.

Will that help in the future? Probably not; I doubt Mastrius has such an addiction, and I'm near-positive I won't ever see Jiub again. Still, I make note of it, for good measure.

...

Sleeping's by far the most impossible thing to do on the vessel. If standing and walking and moving about on a swaying boat during the day is uncomfortable, then sleeping in a hammock on the boat in the dead of night is simply _excruciating._

And people _live _like this. That's the thing I don't get.

How can anyone find hammocks comfortable enough to sleep on? I mean, I understand it if there's no other alternative, but when you know you're living on a boat, why not get a bed? There's room enough, I think. Just bolt the legs down to keep from sliding around.

There's no beds, though. Only hammocks.

At the most, I manage to keep my eyes closed in hopes that my mind will let sleep come for me that way. It won't, of course, but it's hopeful thinking, and it also means my sense of hearing is sharper.

And because my sense of hearing is sharper, I know there are footsteps coming my way, and I know they're there for me because their deliberately tiptoeing, the creaking of underfoot wood slow and drawn out. On instinct, I reach for my sword, hand closing around the hilt.

Just a few feet closer…

And a hand on my back equals a hand lost, steel blade making quick work of muscle and bone. The intruder is staring at me with shock gleaming in his eyes, not even registering the pain because he couldn't even register just what had happened.

And that, my friends, is why you don't touch a paranoid woman with a hand on her sword.

Behind him were several other crew members. When their shock fades, they surge in and grab me by the arms. I most definitely could have handled them with ease, of course, but the damn hammock left me with little to no maneuverability. I got lucky with the hand.

They drag me to my feet, and I feel the point of a sword on my back as I'm led upstairs onto the deck and into the captain's cabin. The crew members relayed what had just happened to Pyke, and he took the news calmly, almost as if he had expected someone to lose a limb.

He stands slowly, looking at me curiously. "You chopped off poor Fortis's hand?"

"Poor Fortis shouldn't have touched me." It's true. If he hadn't touched me, he would have a hand still.

"Cargas…" Pyke shakes his head slowly. "You have to understand why I sent 'em. You're mad suspicious right now. A prisoner transfer to Vivec? We would be pulling into Ebonheart rather than Seyda Neen if that were the case."

"Yes, it was a terribly bad lie, I know."

"So what's the truth, then, guard?"

"Top secret. Hush hush. You must understand how that is." The closest crew member to me is an Imperial woman with short red hair; she has a blade at her waist. Now, how to get to it…

"Oh, but on this ship, there aren't any secrets." Pyke circled around his desk, intentions of either killing me or locking me in the brig clear on his face. He snapped his fingers at the red-headed Imperial, who drew her sword with a metallic song.

Ah. Thank you, captain.

Throwing myself forward, it was easy enough to break free from my captors, and grabbing the sword by the blade (I'll worry about the cut later), I pry it out of the crew member's hands and point it at Pyke's throat.

If he does so much as _swallows_, there'll be a cut on his neck.

"I can assure you, captain Sendu, my secrets prove of no worth and no risk to you or your crew." I can't force back a smile. "Getting on my bad side, however, has proven a thousand times over to be a _very_ fatal mistake."

The other crew members move in, weapons drawn, but Pyke raises his hand in silent order, and they stop in their tracks.

"I have to trust your word, Cargas Andus, but by the Nine, if my crew and ship are in danger's way -"

"They aren't."

And with that, I release the captain and return to the deck, giving the Imperial back her sword on my way out. It would be rude to steal something after threatening the captain's life.

...

Day four, the second to last day until our supposed arrival. I still hate the boat. While my stomach - at last - seemed to grow accustomed to the churning feeling of seasickness, and the crew no longer made any stupid attempts at killing me, it's keeping me from practice, something I hate to miss for even a single day. I don't want it to become a habit; missing practice leads to laziness and rustiness, two things I absolutely _don't _want to risk.

I sat with my back against the wooden walls of the ship's hold, examining my sword, rolling it in my hands and feeling the smooth, plain flat of the blade. It was a simple steel one; I had decided to leave my Akaviri katana in my quarters at the palace to be picked up later when the issue of discreetness arose. It was sharp though, of a good length and a good weight. It would suffice for now.

I stand, stretching my arms until I hear a satisfying _pop _from my shoulders, a welcome relief from stiffness. I swing the blade about a few times as I walk up onto the deck, testing it. It wasn't as long or heavy as the katana, so I had to adjust myself more than a few times for a faster blade than the one I'm used to.

_Upwards slice, twirl, side swipe, crouch and up. _I'm starting to gain an audience. _Spin, land on top of crates, parry motion, stab forward, spin off crates with sword out. _There's definitely more of an audience. _Stab forward, behind-the-back underarm, overarm, lunge-and-pierce._

It's good to see I'm not out of practice, not yet. Three days without swinging a blade (I don't count the hand incident) wasn't enough to rust-ify my skills, thank the Nine. I just wish I was without an audience. It makes me self-conscious.

Suddenly, Pyke comes up, looking grim. "Storm's coming, Cargas. I suggest you get below deck."

Storm? Where does he -

Oh. What's - oh. _Oh._

Clouds. _Storm_ clouds.

Now that I think about it, it _did _seem a bit humid, and there was the scent of rain on the breeze (which was also becoming stronger). I take Pyke's advice and begin to make my way back down.

So much for practice. I imagine the stomach pains are going to return, too.

I. Really. Hate. Boats.

...

_Burning red sands carried by the winds, a dangerous dance of disease and fire. Trees, as black and barren as the lands below them, as dead as the region they sprouted in. A fiery wall of great magic warding off the evil souls of the mountain. A vision of a woman, a statue of pure moonlight. A voice, echoing of prophecy._

"_They have taken you from Imperial City's prison, first by carriage and now by boat, to the east, to Morrowind. Fear not, for I am watchful._

_You have been chosen."_

**_AN: Special thanks goes out to my beta, empire1003! _**

**_Hope you enjoyed!_**


	3. Chapter 3: Freedom

**Chapter 3:**

**Freedom**

The dream repeated throughout the night, leaving Mastrius only vaguely aware of the storm raging outside as it transpired in his mind's eyes, a repetitive show of an angelic, womanly statue and her words, blended with a sense of disease and insufferable pain.

"_Wake up! We're here…"_

Slowly, the visions of fiery sands faded, but the pain remained, a contorting sensation twisting his muscles, a disease in his lungs and throat.

"_Why are you shaking? Mastrius? Are you okay?"_

Another voice, not of the angelic woman, but coarse and masculine. It's growing more desperate. A gentle kick to his shin sends the last of his dreams away.

"_Wake up!"_

Blearily, Mastrius opened his bright crimson eyes, groaning slightly at the soreness of his neck, a painful result of his head hanging through the duration of the night. Slowly, carefully, he looked up, meeting the similarly-colored eyes of his fellow prisoner-in-chains. Jiub's scarred face was a picture of relief.

"Good, you're awake," the mer murmured, almost to himself as he adjusted himself in his permanent seat on the wooden floor. "I was a little worried there."

Mastrius frowned, rolling his shoulders in a fruitless attempt to loosen a knot located between his shoulder blades and sighing when it didn't seem to help at all. "Well, I'm up now…" he muttered under his breath.

"Must've been quite the dream. Not even last night's storm could wake you." _Quite the dream indeed_. Mastrius thought about voicing what he saw to his only companion, but Jiub continued on to say: "I heard them say we've reached Morrowind. I'm sure they'll let us go."

Morrowind. He remembered now, from his dream. The province located to the east of Cyrodiil. Mastrius's stomach churned at the thought of being in a land completely foreign to him, and most likely he would be there on his own, without even Jiub to accompany him. It was how such transfers worked.

Jiub looked about to say something more, but footsteps warned the pair of imprisoned Dunmer before either could say anything, and they held whatever words they wanted to say.

The guard coming for them was the same woman who had retrieved him from the prison in Imperial City. Taller than most Imperials, with a lean and well-muscled form that was all the more accented by her straight-backed composure and her air of dignified superiority. With sun-kissed skin and golden hair held in a ponytail with shaven sides, and warm copper-colored eyes, she looked wrought from the fires of stars.

Wordlessly, she made her way forward, unlocking the chains which kept Mastrius fastened to the ground. "This is where you'll be getting off."

"And me?" Jiub's voice was hopeful, however false or forced it was. The guardswoman glanced back at the scarred mer, and Mastrius didn't miss the brief glint of sympathy and pity in her eyes.

"You will be released elsewhere in Morrowind, at Sadrith Mora farther to the east." Disappointment crossed Jiub's features, but the woman had already turned her back on him, speaking once again to Mastrius. "Come with me."

Mastrius glanced briefly at Jiub. The prisoner gave a forced smile, one corner of his lips pulling upwards in a mild look of encouragement. Mastrius couldn't bring himself to return the gesture, however, and with a dip of his head in a brisk and final farewell, he followed the guard.

"Do you know why you're here?" The guardswoman's question came as a surprise to Mastrius, and he nearly stumbled as he climbed the first small flight of stairs.

_Never speak to a superior if it can be helped. _That was what his mentor always said, and this woman was - in one way or another - a superior, so he held his tongue. She glanced back, looking clearly irritated by his lack of response. She clarified things for him, however, at least to an extent.

"You're being released by order of the Emperor. You best behave yourself, though, Dark Elf. This is a privilege for you. So do what's asked of you, otherwise it'll be back behind bars, or worse."

It suddenly felt as if he had been hit in the head with a warhammer.

_Released_?

Unconsciously, his mind travelled back to his dreams from the previous night.

* * *

I made it a point for me to go ahead of Mastrius. It worked better that way, you see; no association longer than necessary, and should I find the ranking legionnaire stationed in the Census and Excise Office, I could give him the package for Caius to give to the Dark Elf. It was a safe way to ensure I wouldn't at all be associated with the Spymaster of the Blades. A good and reasonable plan, I think.

When another guard - low ranking, I imagine - came up to meet us halfway across the dock, I took the chance to initiate the plan.

_Step one: Get reasonably ahead of Mastrius._

There's not much I can do, but simply going into the office seems to suffice. I'm out of Mastrius's line of sight, and besides that the guard has to ask him some preliminary questions.

An elderly Breton man sitting at his desk looks up from his paperwork, white eyebrow quirked. "I imagine you aren't the prisoner?"

"Indeed I'm not."

_Step two: Identify ranking officer._

The Breton, who is quite possibly the Chief Executive of this branch, nods, as if self-confirming something. "Then I believe you will want to see Sellus Gravius, Knight Errant of the Imperial Legion. An emissary of sorts. He can provide you with what you need, and if not guide you in the right direction. He's located in the next building, past the courtyard."

Knight Errant Sellus Gravius.

'Identify ranking officer'. Quicker to do than I expected.

_Step three: Speak to said officer and convince him to give forms to released prisoner._

The courtyard is relatively easy to find; down the hall, turn right into a room with far too many miscellaneous items, through the door, and _bam! _Courtyard. A pathetic, walled-in area of grass that doesn't deserve to be considered anything more than a pathetic, walled-in area of grass, but who am I to judge?

_Note to self (1): Don't get distracted by shiny, enchanted rings._

Such a thing was conveniently placed in one of the two barrels that stood next to the door of the second building. What a waste…

Well, I'm sure it wouldn't fit my finger anyways. Onwards.

Almost as soon as I open the door, I'm greeted by the sight of a (devilishly handsome) Imperial sorting through paperwork at his desk, wearing Imperial templar armor, a man I can only assume is the Knight Errant I was directed to: Sellus Gravius.

* * *

"Ah!" The Chief exclaimed upon spotting the rugged mer that was Mastrius. The ashen-skinned Dunmer glanced about him, perhaps a bit more surprised than he should have been when he noticed how heavily Cyrodiilic the office was. Polished wooden floors, tapestries hanging on the walls, a roaring flame burning in the hearth pressed against the furthest wall, and other such furnishings reminded him greatly of the smaller towns and cities of the Imperial province.

"You must be the prisoner." Mastrius turned his attention to the elderly Breton as he spoke once more. The clean-cut man smiled warmly in greeting, waving him over to have a seat across from him at his desk, an offer Mastrius reluctantly accepted. "My name is Socucius Ergalla, Chief Executive of the Census and Excise office here in Seyda Neen. Now, you'll have to be recorded before you are officially released. All you have to do is answer some questions…"

* * *

"And why should I give this to the released prisoner?"

Sellus Gravius. Knight Errant of the Imperial Legion. Devilishly handsome. And stubborn as a Daedric prince.

Damnit, I don't have time for this.

"It's by the Emperor's command."

"What proof do you have?"

Should I snap?

_No no, Cargas. Behave._ A voice keeps telling me that, like a little Uriel Septim to a poorly behaved infant. I'm not entirely convinced I should listen to it.

* * *

"Name?"

"Mastrius."

Socucius looked up quizzically. "No family name?"

If he were honest, no. He didn't know his family name. When asked of it, he would say and put to paper "Mastrius Tharyon", that was true, but that was his _mentor's_ family name. He bit the inside of his cheek in thought. This was a new province, a new land. Would it be right to enter it with a lie?

He decided no, but it would be safer. Gave him a fall-back in Cyrodiil, so he "corrected" himself. "Tharyon. Mastrius Tharyon."

Socucius nodded, scribbling it down.

* * *

"My word is my proof."

"Your word isn't enough, woman."

Is he _trying_ to die? _Deep breaths, Cargas. Deep breaths._

"I came personally from the Palace, Errant," I try to say, but he just shakes his head.

"I can't just take something without physical forms or proof of where it came from, much less give it to a _prisoner_." He looks back to his own work.

Oh, he thinks this is over, does he?

* * *

"Now, the letter that preceded you mentioned you were born under a certain sign. What would that be?"

"The Atronach, sir." That was one question Mastrius knew the answer to, one he was comfortable with giving, one that made him feel empowered with the magic granted to him. "Sun's Dusk, in the year 376."

Socucius nods, a faint smile on his weathered face as he scribbles down more words. It was tedious and slow-going, and as the old man wrote, so did Mastrius's desperation for freedom grow.

* * *

Sorry, Little Uriel, I can't hold my temper anymore.

"Look!" I slam my hands down on the desk, and thank the Nine the added effect _works_; I've his full attention now, that bastard. "I didn't give up my comfy living quarters in the palace, get on a gods-forsaken _boat _in stormy weather, come to a foreign land I know near nothing about just for an _Errant _to tell me they can't do me this one damned favor!"

Sellus blinks once, then finally - _finally _\- he accepts the package. "I'll be sure to give this to the released prisoner."

"Good."

Damn fool was giving me a migraine.

* * *

The rest of the interview went on with perhaps equal enthusiasm, which was to say none at all. Despite the teachings of his mentor, his belief that the higher-ranking were nothing but trouble, Mastrius answered the questions honestly. He was, after all, being granted freedom. It was an alien province, that was true, but it was _freedom_.

Socucius even seemed happy when the interview was finally over, a soft sigh leaving his lips as he finalized the papers with an elegant signature and a wax stamp at the very bottom of the last page. The Breton handed the newly-released prisoner the forms with a smile.

"Show your papers to Errant Gravius when you exit to get your release fee."

Hesitantly, the Dunmer grabbed the forms and stood from his seat, bowing respectfully, still in a slight daze that the bars of the cells were permanently behind him now.

"_Obey the superiors, but don't talk if it can be helped," _his mentor had once said, "_they can restore your freedom when it's taken from you." _

The ashes of his dreams were all but forgotten as he proceeded through the door into the hallway and out of the office.

**AN: Short, uninteresting chapter, but things will pick up next update. At least, that's the plan. As always concrit is muy apreciado, and muchas gracias to mi beta, empire1003. :)**


End file.
